A carpenter’s a witness as I write
these lines — atop the roof next door, he works
with noisy nails, mortar, and brush. It might
be that he sees me (and the little workshop

made up of pencil, cigarette, and half
a sheet on which my halting hand is sketching)
As an example of a curious craft
one practices, immobile, in one’s kitchen.

To each his own domain. Yet I must say
the work I do is not as far away
from his as he perhaps believes: slate

by slate he mends a roof; I build four walls
of writing word by word, a makeshift place
I’m glad to leave behind, tools and all,

to go outside to breathe a bit in nature.